


Help Me Up

by brightbulbs



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse, Gen, Mentions of Underage Sex, abusive childhoods, drug overdose, mentions of sexual abuse, sibling feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightbulbs/pseuds/brightbulbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mandy is born, Mickey is too little to hold her in his arms like big brothers do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Me Up

When his sister is born, Mickey is too little to hold her in his arms like big brothers do. She is tiny with soft pink skin, and their mother swears she looks just like he did only with a pink cap fitted on her head. The family celebrates with beer and cigars that smoke up the house making Mickey cough and choke. Terry's cigar hangs out of his mouth as he shows off the newborn to aunts and uncles and cousins and sisters and brothers. The embers fall every which way, and their mother takes her gently from his arms glancing nervously about her and making the excuse that she needs to be fed.  

Mickey is picked up from the floor. His face is pinched and prodded. People spitting alcohol coo at him drunkenly. Mickey rears back in their arms and makes a fuss. At first they're amused, and laughing. Then he nearly falls out completely. Terry shouts for his wife to come get the little shit, annoyance clearly written on his face. Swiftly, he's picked up into familiar arms and placed in his crib. A kiss is placed on his head as he holds himself up gripping the metal bars. His mother leaves and he reaches his small hands out as if to catch her. He can't.

But he is not alone. The baby squirms closely beside him, unable yet to control her reflexes. She sleeps soundly in a way Mickey wish he could.   

.

He's only a year old himself, and he screams for attention from his seat on the floor. Their mother pleads with him to stop, unwilling to put the newborn down for just a moment. He doesn't stop crying. The baby doesn't stop crying. Terry doesn't stop screaming at their mother to "shut them the fuck up," and it takes every fiber in her exhausted petite body not to lose it, fearing in her heart she'll be a headline in tomorrow's local news if she does. That she'll commit some sin against them all for a small moment of peace in an incessant stream of chaos. _Young Mother in Southside Smothers Infants_. The thought creeps into her consciousness and she feels her spirit sinking. 

She only has two arms. Her legs are strained, and her belly aches with hunger as she pours her existence into feeding and changing and bathing; meanwhile, she tries to navigate Terry's explosive moods. It almost like she's raising three babies, except one has the power to strangle the life out of her. A shudder escapes her mouth and her hands move to touch the bruises along her neck. The newborn is lulled to sleep, and Mickey is reduced to hiccups. She places them in their shared crib and wipes tears threatening to pour over the edges of her own eyes. 

The pills sitting on her dresser are her escape. 

.

Her name is Mandy and two year old Mickey finds her fascinating. Her hair is black and brown, and her eyes deep blue - just like him. She's different from him, but he doesn't know how yet. It doesn't bother him though. What does bother him is her teething. Every toy of his is covered in baby slobber. He tears a toy car she's about to put in her mouth out of her tiny hands which then ball up as she wails. She's picked up, shushed and kissed. He's admonished, with a soft pat to his diapered butt.

 _Don't be mean to your sister. She doesn't understand_. 

Mickey throws a fit. He throws his toys and cries. They're his toys.  _He doesn't understand_. Terry storms in and grabs him by the arms. He's dragged to a corner and forced to sit. He screams, the emotional injury shocking his system more than the throbbing in his wrists. He falls asleep in the corner, his body tired out from heaving and gasping open mouthed, tear-stained and red cheeked. 

It's her fault for not teaching those kids how to fucking behave, Terry shouts to no one in particular. Their mother shakes with anger. She wants to shout back.  _Like you do any fucking good_. She downs the pills sitting on her dresser instead, if only to save her life from her temper.   

. 

Mickey calls her "May-dee." Mandy points at him and calls him "Mi" enthusiastically. She giggles non-stop, over a year and a half old now. Happily, she waddles everywhere and Mickey tries to catch her when she stumbles. He's good at that. Good at walking. Good at dancing around the house, so to avoid the barreling tornado of rage. 

Accidents happen though, like when Mandy stumbles and Mickey isn't there to catch or steady her. She crashes into a shelf, causing the items upon it to fall to the floor breaking into pieces. Mickey is three and he takes the fall for it.  

 _Take care of this shit._  Terry says forcefully. 

Their mother brings him to the ER, and his arm is put in a cast. It takes her a few minutes to fabricate a believable story. She checks her face in the mirror and slips on a long sleeved shirt before carrying them both out the door, Mandy and him. The doctor eyes her curiously and listens to her retelling, as he looks over the injury. She's a good actor, but when the curtain closes, her anxiety consumes her.  

She sneaks a pill out of her purse and swallows it. 

.

Mickey is the smallest boy in his kindergarten class.

He doesn't grow much until Terry is arrested that spring. Then he springs up like a weed, reaching normal height. A little fat sticks to his naturally stocky body and his cheeks are pink and healthy. The first day he's gone, their mother fishes out some dollar bills from the kitchen drawer and takes them out for ice cream. 

Mandy sits on the curb licking the dripping chocolate from her hands. Mickey sits beside her, licking up ice cream evenly so it doesn't drip. He hands his leftover napkins to his little sister. Her face is coated in chocolate. Their mother sits by Mandy's other side, and she rolls a pill absentmindedly in her hands. Mandy tugs at her arm, and asks her "Mama, what is that?"

"It's nothing baby. It's just mama's treat." She smiles and places the pill back in her purse. 

.

On her first day of school, Mandy is shy and nervous. Mickey holds her hand and brings her to the door as per his mother's instructions. He passes her off to her teacher quickly, and runs down the hall to his first grade classroom.

She’s sat next to a little boy who seemed to have been dunked in a vat of freckles. His hair is curly and bright red, and Mandy nervousness consumes her. He says “hi,” and she bursts into tears. The teacher tries to calm her, and the little boy looks around worried that he did something wrong.

Taking her by the hand, her teacher leads her to another classroom. She knocks on the door, and an older woman with horn-rimmed glasses opens the door. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. Is Mickey Milkovich in your classroom?”

After explaining the situation, Mickey is pulled out of the classroom and left in the hallway with Mandy. Teachers walk by with their students in a single file line as he tries to calm her down. His face turns beet red as kids stare at them.

.

“Never call him Terry” Mickey tells Mandy, sitting on their shared bed. Mickey is seven, and he thinks he’s too old for this.

“I didn’t mean to make him mad” Mandy whimpers, and curls up. The welts from his belt stand out on the backs of her legs. She wears stretchy pants underneath her shorts to school the next day, even though it’s almost June.

Their mother banishes herself to the kitchen, to prepare something for Terry. She carries it on a tray to the couch where he is sitting scratching his belly and watching a baseball game. He doesn’t even acknowledge her.

She sits on the porch with a beer in one hand, and a couple pills in the other.

.

Mandy keeps the bedroom, and Mickey is moved to a makeshift bedroom in the former utility room. It’s not like they have a washer or dryer anyways, and Mickey isn’t too bitter about the change. He’d been begging for this since his tenth birthday.

That doesn’t stop him from tossing and turning every other night for the first couple months. There’s no hand to hold onto when the screaming and shouting and smashing is too intense to sleep through.

Mandy tries to sneak into his bedroom once after a particularly rough night. Mickey turns over, back facing her. Mandy takes it as rejection.

.

Their mom dies on a Sunday with a bottle of pills in her hand. Mickey finds her in the bathroom, unresponsive. Her eyes are sunken in and her lips are blue. The image is permanently burned into his brain.

Mickey hates Sunday for taking her. Mandy hates her mother for leaving. Really, she’s scared because she’s gone but _he’s_ still here.

.

Mickey is almost fifteen and he concerns himself with beer, drugs, tattoos, first times and shooting a gun. His dad teaches him how to deal and shoot, telling him he’s a man. Mickey is simultaneously his punching bag, and his right hand man. He gets really good at dealing, and the praise he receives fuels him. The beatings are less and less, but he walks a tight rope. One fuck up and he’s going to get it.

When he lets a boy fuck him, he knows he’s already fucked up.

Mandy is thirteen and she concerns herself with boys, shopping malls, stealing nail polish, and her appearance. She cakes on makeup in the mirror hiding purple marks on her neck, as well as a black and blue eye. She’s always been clumsy. She’s always stumbled, and Mickey hasn’t been there to hold her up for years. Hasn't been there to hold her hand, or take the fall. 

Every day she looks for someone to hold her up, unaware she has it in herself to stand tall.  

.

It’s ironic that the one that pulls Mickey and Mandy back together in an every person for themselves household, is the boy that scared the shit out of her as a child. He’s grown now, and beautiful. His hair is still bright red, but it’s straight and his freckles have faded some.

When she really thinks about it, Mandy isn’t sure what really freaked her out so much other than his unrelenting kindness and refusal to ignore her suffering. Now she’s drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

He also likes boys, which makes Mandy’s heart sink just a little. The initial rejection shocked her, but maybe he could give her the attention she truly wanted. Someone to help hold her up. Someone to walk with her. Someone to be proud of her when she does it on her own. They walk, and she falls and she falls and it’s not her fault when the world keeps tripping her. Each time, he holds his hand out to help pick her up.  

He also likes Mickey, and Mickey likes him too. They’ve kept it hidden for some time, but Mandy finds out in the boy’s drunken rage. That’s all she understands before it all falls apart.

Mickey hates himself. She hates him too. Really, she’s scared because the boy is gone but _he’s_ still here.

.

Divided they fell into the ocean and sunk to the depths below certain they were doomed. Mickey and Mandy are bitter and angry. They both lose someone so important and vital. They both find themselves falling into old routines. Drowning in alcohol. Falling victim to false promises. Hurting. 

They ignore each other in a way they’ve feared ignoring _him_ and _his_ wants. They step around each other in a way they’ve tried to step around _him_ all their lives. They are walking on egg shells in a way they’ve had to be with _him_ all their lives.

It’s suffocating.

It only makes it hurt more, and there is so much unspoken suffering between the two of them. The source is the same, but they don’t know that. They haven’t known that as clearly – that they shared the same pain - as they did when they slept side by side, holding their little hands together when the screaming and yelling and smashing plates became too much to hear. It doesn't seem to matter anyways. He always put his hands on them, and there was nothing they could ever do about it. Not together. Not apart. 

.

The boy returns, but he wont move. He can't move. He's fallen. Mickey and Mandy stand side by side - black haired, blue eyed, and bruised - but _he's_ not here.  

They reach out their hands. 

If they walk together, maybe they'll make it. 

 

 

 


End file.
